That Rather Peculiar Tenant in 221C
by ArtisticGallifreyan
Summary: As luck would have it, Mrs. Hudson finally found a tenant for the 221C flat plagued with damp, a young woman recently emigrated from Australia who took the flat in a heartbeat but appears to have a rather sketchy past laden with unanswered questions. Who is she? What is she running from? And why does Sherlock find her a little bit odd? Pre-Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock x OC. No slash.
1. Moving Day

_Today my life starts afresh._

_Today it starts anew._

_The past is but a crux _

_I will force a way through._

A little chant that had become an emotional anchor over time played harmoniously with my mind's chorus. It was refreshing, given the immense changes that were turbulently rocking the proverbial boat that was, in every sense of the word, my _life_. If somebody had asked me eight years ago if I had would intend on relocating in the eventual future to the United Kingdom with a menial career as a 'checkout chick' at the local Tescos, I likely would have retorted with a nonchalantly forced '_huh_?' followed by a request to bugger off. Which wouldn't have really been out of character for me, considering I would have been 19 years old at the time with an A+ average, and an expected 93 on my UAI (University Admissions Index). I also would have been in Sydney, Australia; my _home_.

So it was fair to say my priorities had changed since my young, budding academic days when I had _so_ much to offer the world. I could have been a doctor, or a physicist (I hate physics), but setting that point aside I could have been _brilliant_. So how did a distinction average student manage to fall so far as to end up with a minimal-wage job, beeping cans (and occasionally stacking them) in a supermarket? How in the _hell_ did I end up agreeing to move what _little_ possessions I had into a dingy basement flat in London?

It's a _long_ story.

Well, not long in the sense that you might absolutely be bored to your wits end, but I suppose complicated is the best word to describe it. Complicated, unfair and nasty. Yes, _nasty_. I like that word; it seems to resonate with how I feel about the whole situation, and when you hear the whole story you'll understand why.

"So, Miss Andrews, you're not at all bothered by the damp?"

A motherly tone snapped me from my train of thought. Embarrassingly enough, I'd apparently been standing in the middle of my flat and staring vacantly at the wall. I did that sometimes, _staring_ at things. But with my past history, I tended to find myself reflecting on trivial matters such as being screwed over in life, or my god-awful job, just to name a few.

"Please, call me Sam… And the damp? Of course not." I slowly began to turn, a smile enveloping my previously blank expression as I came face to face with the adorably hospitable landlady. _Mrs. Hudson, I believe. _"It's just what I'm after, and the location is second to none." I beamed. "Plus, the damp can be easily fixed, and I'm willing to pocket a few coins aside to contribute to the repairs, if you'll allow me."

"That's kind of you to offer, dear." A warm, and utterly one of the most genuine smiles I had ever seen planted across her face. _She's clearly got such a tender heart_.

"One would think it'd be expected, especially with a landlady as lovely as yourself." I returned a smile, although unfortunately not laced with nearly as much sincerity as she had shown me. That wasn't to say I was buttering her up for a better rate, but social situations were not my strong suit and with the aim of 'not' wanting to draw attention to myself, I'd concluded that it'd be within my best interest to be a tenant with some degree of social skills as opposed to becoming a total recluse. With all that had gone on in the past few years I would have much preferred the latter, but that just drew attention.

"You're too kind." She chuckled. "May I ask dear, your accent-.'

"Australia." I jumped to the question _before_ it even became a question. "Sydney, to be exact. And yes, I'm here to live. Also; and just to clear up any concerns that you may have as a landlady, but I don't party, do drugs nor will I upset the flat with abhorrently loud dubstep." I figured it was best to iron out any apprehensions that she might have prior to myself making a much more permanent stay in this flat. "I've a regular income from the local Tescoes three blocks down, and on the rare occasion I do decide to frivolously spend my earnings, it will likely be on the theatre." Good. Very good; I'd practically had my 'good tenant' spiel pre-rehearsed, and was pleased with the outcome.

Apparently a tad overwhelmed with my onslaught, she gave a gentle chuckle. "That's absolutely fine dear, the boys upstairs are likely to give more grief than you ever could." She sighed. "Speaking of which, they're not in at the moment but when they return I'll have them drop by to give you a proper welcome."

"Oh, you have tenants upstairs?" _I suppose I'm not surprised. Central location, close to absolutely everything in the CBD, and London is a densely populated city. Of course I'd be putting up with more than just the landlady. Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

"In 221B, but only two." Suddenly a look of hesitation passed her eyes. I may not be an expert in reading micro expressions and whatnot (I 'had' seen all the episodes of _Lie to Me_), but it was clear she wasn't sure as to whether or not she'd feel comfortable disclosing something. Something related to the flat mates, no doubt.

"But?" I chuckled, lightly folding my arms across my chest.

Thinking about it for a moment, it appeared as though she finally gave into temptation. "Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes, or Doctor John Watson?"

I paused. The names rang a bell or two, but I'd only been in the country for a few days, and I wasn't one to constantly peruse the Internet. Whatever news I did hear; both local and international was often absorbed via a newspaper. There was something about _holding_ the daily grind in ones hands that made it feel a little more real. "You'll have to forgive me, I'm not too familiar with local celebrities." I chuckled. "But I've only been here for a few days, so jet-lag may still be getting the better of me I'm afraid."

Relief appeared to wash over the landlady. Was there something important regarding these two? I suppose I'd find that out for the duration of my stay in this flat, which hopefully was indefinite.

But with my past always nipping at my heels… Not likely.

"Sherlock Holmes, the worlds 'only' consulting detective, and his live-in assistant, Doctor John Watson. You'll certainly hear about them in the news, they've become a sensation, what with that Moriarty fellow and all those awful men he's put in prison."

"Ah." I nodded slowly, but the names didn't appear to register any familiarity. "I'll keep a weather eye out for their names in the papers. I'm a fairly easy tenant to get along with, so I can't imagine we're going to have any problems." I sighed, but she still looked a tad weary. "If _that's _what you're worried about."

"Oh no dear, not at all." Glancing down at her watch, I assumed she had somewhere she needed to be. Somewhere that didn't involve trying to explain to a new tenant that there was _something_ wrong with one or both of the tenants who resided upstairs. _I'll figure it out, I always do._

_No, no I won't. I'm trying to keep a low profile, remember?_

"I'm afraid I've got to be off, it was lovely meeting you Sam." Mrs. Hudson yet again graced me with an absolutely adorable smile, reached out and gave my arm a friendly pat, but just as she went to turn around she came to a sudden stop and flickered her gaze back towards me. "Oh! Silly me. When did you want to move in?"

I glanced around, and then to the overnight-sized bag that lay tilted at my feet. "Is now alright?" I glanced back up but she looked a little perplexed, and rightly so.

"Now? Don't you need to arrange to go purchase some furniture and go and pick up your things from your hotel?"

"Mrs. Hudson, with respect, these _are_ my things." I gestured down to my overnight bag, which received a baffled gasp from the old woman. "I pack light."

"But dear, there's no furniture, not even a couch you can-" _Bless her, she actually cares for my welfare and she's only known me for twenty minutes._

"My dear Mrs. Hudson, channel your worries elsewhere." I reciprocated her previous gesture of goodwill and gave her a gentle pat on her shoulder. Fortunately we were of equal height, well… I was possibly a tad taller by an inch or so at most. We were also likely the same weight, which (for my age) could or couldn't be considered a bad thing, depending on how you looked at it. I'd always appeared to be a little undernourished for my age, especially considering the past few years that had been both physically and emotionally taxing. If I ate, I tended to gain a little muscle and appear to have a rather athletic build. If I went a few days without, I seemingly began to adopt a slightly emancipated visage. Fortunately though, I had one of those 'youthful' faces that made slightly undernourished look 'slightly' cute. You know, having doe-eyed blue hues with that ancestral Irish skin (the kind that _refused_ to tan, not quite practical in Australia but _excellent_ for the United Kingdom), a small button nose and naturally pouty lips. To top that all off (literally), were dark brunette tresses that fell from the lip of the knitted beanie that wrapped around my crown.

"If there's one thing I can pride myself on, it's logistics." I smirked. "I'll arrange all that tomorrow. There's a company a few blocks down where you can just hire the basics in bulk, but you pay it off over time in small allotments. I called up prior to meeting you and they said that once I had the go-ahead from you, I could call and make arrangements. They deliver on the day, although it's a little late now…" I glanced down at my watch. "Being 4:30pm."

"Oh, yes." The landlady slowly, but still seemed a little weary. _I need her to just give me the key and get the hell out of here._

"Look." I reached a hand into the pocket of my navy pea coat and retrieved a small yellow envelope with '_rent' _awkwardly scribbled on the front. I wasted no time as I extended a friendly hand forward and palmed the envelope into Mrs. Hudson who appeared to be rather surprised. "This should more than cover the rent for the first month, plus a bit extra for the damp. And before you ask, I've got a small sleeping bag and pillow so I won't sleep too rough. You needn't worry." I offered the most sincere yet forced smile possible, to which I fortunately received one in return (albeit, a little uneasy from her end), and a nod. With another glance at her watch, she dipped her hand into her own pocket to fish out a key, and promptly returned the favor by passing it to my own hand. 

"I've got a spare key of course, but do drop by if you've got any problems with the flat. Apologies for running off but I do have to run to the store… I'll drop by tomorrow just to see how you've settled in."

And with that, she was gone. I wasted no time as I bounded gladly over to the door and pushed it shut with a defining _creak_ that echoed through the aged walls of this quaint little hovel.

"Alone… Finally." It's times like these where I wished I actually had a couch that I could just slump on and sleep. Unfortunately however, that wasn't going to get sorted until tomorrow. Worse still, I had told a bit of a fib when I mentioned that I had a sleeping bag and pillow in my possession. I wasn't lying when I said I packed light though; there was only so much I could grab from my previous residence in the midst of being shot at.

But amidst all the pain lingering from my past, for the first time in a long time I actually felt _content_. Granted, I was standing in the middle of a dingy little flat with damp peeling from the walls (and likely a severe health hazard for the immune deficient) but it wasn't just a dingy little flat anymore. It was _home_, and after all this running it was a soothing ray of sunshine to finally stop and catch my breath. Ah yes, this may not have been the life I originally intended to have, but I was finally content.

"From here on in, I'm Sam Andrews, resident of 221C Baker Street and my life starts _today_."

**Author's note: I hope you liked the first little installment of this chapter! I'm sure you've got a few questions! Who is she? What made her go on the run all those years ago? What the **_**hell**_** happened in her past and how is this going to tie in with Sherlock and John? Just a note, this is Pre-Reichenbach. Why? Because I'm not inclined to take the helm of Mary Morstan. I love her character, but I'm not fussed on throwing her into the mix at this point. Anyhow, please review if you have the time!**


	2. Awkward Confrontations

_Was that a bullet? _

_Moisture was dribbling down my ear. Blood? Yes, definitely blood. My ear hurts._

_Did it hit me?_

"_Get her!"_

"_She's escaping!"_

"_We've orders to kill if necessary! Go on, get her!"_

_Those voices… They were after me, and they were poised to shoot. They would shoot. Oh, my feet. My feet are bleeding. Had I cut them? It was bound to happen, being dark and all, not to mention the height of the grass. Oh god, they're going to get me, they're going to get me!_

"_Visual on the left!"_

"_I see her, preparing to fire."_

"_FIRE!"_

_Another bullet whizzed past, narrowly missing my shoulder and colliding with a tree further to my right. Minimal noise and from a distance that large I'd say sniper. Yes, a sniper. They had snipers, and aerial surveillance. _

_Twigs scraped at raw skin as my legs carried me faster and faster. My arms and hands however, had the daunting task of shielding my face from low-lying foliage and branches that constantly thwacked me as I delved deeper into the sheer density of the bush land. I could still hear shouting, the audible roar of a low lying chopper keeping a targeted eye with a spotlight sweeping over the grasslands, and the sound of German shepherds baying for their next catch. Was I surrounded? Likely so. They weren't going to let me go. _

_Not unless it was in a body bag, and even then I suspected they'd retract my only dignity upon death by a hush-hush cremation._

_"THERE!"_

_I darted right, but not quick enough it seemed. A series of three bullets came from three separate angles. Two missed, but the last grazed the skin of my shoulder. But I couldn't stop. If I stopped, they'd catch me. They'd catch me, and kill me. _

_And I couldn't go back._

_I wouldn't._

"_Just leave me ALONE!" I screeched, tears pooling in my eyes and melding with the blood and sweat as they trailed to the ground below. _

"_FIRE!"_

_This couldn't be it. _

_It couldn't be over._

"_Visual reclaimed on the target."_

_Just._

_"Copy that."_

Leave.

"_Additional visual sighted, taking aim."_

Me.

"_Fire at will."_

_ALONE._

"ALONE!" I bolted upright from the rather obscure position that I had found myself in. I appeared to have taken rest on the floor and drifted off into a power-nap. Adding to the oddity of it all, I'd let the boundaries between dreams, memories and awakening blur, evident from the cold sweat that glistened on my skin. _In time those blasted memories will fade, I hope._

A yawn escaped my lips as I glanced down at my watch. _5:20pm_. Had I really napped for the good portion of an hour? I guess I _had_ been pretty tired, and based on my experience, jet lag normally took the better portion of a week to correct itself. Making note of lost time, I quickly hopped to my feet and went to scope out the flat – again.

Excitement to have my own place must have somewhat clouded my judgment earlier on, because this place was bordering on decrepit. Seventies-style wallpaper was peeling off the walls revealing the festering damp that lay beneath, and newspapers covered the window in the central living room. The carpet was a drab shade of vomit, which only further accentuated the rather odd assortment of stains to go with it.

I trailed fingers across the wall, passing a small little kitchenette nestled in a small nook by the living room until I eventually made my way to the bedroom. It was quaint, a little small and the condition of the decay appeared to match the other room, but it _was_ cozy. Downside though, no walk in cupboard; I've _always_ wanted one of those. Brightside however, it had a tiny little bathroom attached which I could only assume was the only bathroom in this flat. "Hmph."

_This place needs work._

And work generally cost money. Money, which I no longer had, thanks to my early payment I had slipped Mrs. Hudson to keep her happy. Money, which was extremely limited, given that I'd only worked a day since I arrived (although I was extremely thankful for an agency setting me up with a job prior to my arrival), and my shifts wouldn't get more regular for a few weeks at least. In fact, the money I'd given Mrs. Hudson had quite literally been my entire life savings, and it was all I had.

"At least the rent is reasonable…" I sighed, running my hand lightly down my cheek. There was _so_ much to do and I had so little funds to achieve it. I needed to buy groceries, clothes, _and furniture_ for Christ stake. How the hell was I going to do that when I had less than $13.50 to my name? I suppose going without food wasn't totally foreign to me, but everything else was required if I was going to pass underneath the radar of suspicion. Not to mention, the man upstairs was apparently a _detective_. No, a _consulting detective_; and somebody I absolutely did not want in my hair right now.

I needed a plan. I needed a plan _right_ now and only one thing was coming to mind.

_No, no I don't want to do that, that's exactly the reason I'm wanted. _

_But I have no money… People will notice._

_No they won't._

_Yes they will._

As my mind waged an internal war, I leant against the doorframe to my bed-less room and clasped both hands together as I dived deep in thought. I knew from the _start_ that this wasn't going to be easy, I just never wanted to resort to… Well, the thing I didn't want to face.

_I need a walk_.

The only good thing about not having plenty of things is that you don't need to ensure they're all in order before you go. So with that in mind, I grabbed my key, my phone and bag and made a beeline for the door. I wasn't prepared to spend the rest of the day moping inside my flat, so I figured it'd be more productive walking _and_ moping outside.

Feeling my spirit rapidly reenergize, I felt my mood lift as a result. As a small washed over my face I wrapped a hand around the handle, twisted it open, took a brave step outside and let the door shut behind me with a resounding 'click'. After I made sure it had locked, I took a deep breath and began to make my way to the front door. If there was _one_ thing I that really let this place down, it was the lighting; this corridor was awful dim and dark shadows lurked in every corner.

_I might mention to Mrs. Hudson to grab a few lamps to brighten this place up._

"You're new."

I froze. I quite literally froze; every muscle in my body appeared to no longer cooperate as I stood there contemplating whether or not I would turn around to face the source of that spooky baritone, or simply walk out the door. _First one raises less suspicion, so let's go with that._ Awkwardly, I shifted around until I locked eyes with a male figure sitting on the stairs with elbows resting on his thighs and hands steepled beneath his chin. He appeared _deep_ in thought, more so than I could ever achieve, but there was something about his eyes. They were calculating, but withheld an intelligence I likely couldn't even begin to measure up to. It was almost as if he were tearing away at every part of my being; desperately _trying_ to dig deep into my core. I couldn't even begin to explain _how_ I even gathered he was doing that; quite possibly because I'd never felt this scrutinized before.

All I knew was that it bothered me. _Immensely._

"H-Hello." A subtle stammer found its way into my tone as I struggled to maintain eye contact with this stranger. The more I looked at him, the more off-putting it became. Those raven curls, that ivory skin and sharp check bones were absolutely divine, but that sense of being analyzed under a microscope was making me very, very uncomfortable. "I'm-"

"Just arrived." He remained in his unusual pose, but his eyes never left my sight. "From Australia, given the upward inflection you've attributed to the end of your response, and I'd say two days based upon the _obvious_ markers of jetlag; bags under the eyes, you haven't slept well, if at all since your arrival; three hours at most." He edged forward, his fingers still supporting his chin. "And yet here you are now after accepting the first flat you've seen within minutes of inspection; that says you're _desperate_ for a place to live and to keep out of the public eye. Can't have a hotel, too much traffic in and out. _No_, you needed quiet. You needed low profile."

I wasn't quite sure how far my jaw had dipped and how wide my mouth was hanging open, but I promptly snapped it shut and frowned. "You… You spoke to Mrs. Hudson? I didn't think she was back yet…"

_What in the-_

_Mrs. Hudson. He must have spoken to Mrs. Hudson._

I was certain I saw the very brief flicker of a _very_ subtle smirk that graced one corner of his lips for a fraction of a second, but before I could sneak in the other word he was back on the offensive.

"Mrs. Hudson? _No_, and I don't need to. The signs are obvious if you do attempt to _observe_."

"But how could you _possibly _know I only looked at one flat?" I blinked, my mouth resuming its previously gawking open pose. "What's not to say I didn't look a few others before this one?"

"Two days in a foreign country; likely spent filled with making arrangements for employment and taxation which meant _no_ time to look at a flat. And the fact that Mrs. Hudson left you alone in the flat with a key twenty minutes after your meeting. That says you made arrangements, clearly enough to satisfy the landlady in terms of tenant reliability; more likely because you paid a considerable sum in full to cover your rent, possibly extra based on how desperate you were to acquire _it_." He practically clicked the 't' at the end, likely pleased with his deductions, as well as the horrified expression that I provided in contrast. "Am I wrong?"

I kept deadly silent for a moment, struggling to construct some intelligent form of a response to counteract his ferocious intellect… But nothing came to mind.

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" I bit the bottom of my lip; any hope of maintaining a self-confident façade was long gone. "I've been warned."

In response, he simply remained perched on the stairs and continued to stare.

_You and me are 'not' going to get along._

_No way in hell._

"Sherlock!" A voice suddenly rang from the top of the stairs; likely belonging to the other flat mate I'd likewise been advised about. "Have you seen my bloody phone?"

Shortly after, the door upstairs creaked open and a rather short gentleman with sandy blonde hair began making his way down the stairs, only coming to a halt when he nearly tripped over his counterpart. "Why are you sitting on the-" Then he glanced up and quickly made eye contact with me, although fortunately it was nowhere as dissecting as Sherlock's had been. "Oh, hello!" He sounded _much_ more hospitable as well. "And who might you be?" 

Responding his hospitality with my own, I offered a mildly sincere smile and gladly shifted my attention to the shorter of the two. "Samantha, but please… Call me Sam." Feeling a little more at ease, I took a step forward towards the stairs, but John slipped past Sherlock and extended a friendly hand, to which I shook it gladly. "Just moved here in fact, and I've already had the displeasure of meeting your…" _Go on, you're allowed to have a little fun_. "Partner?" I winked.

John immediately leapt on the defensive and raised both hands defensively, but let out an awkward chuckle. "Oh, we're not… He's not my-." _Oh, he's just a little bit cute when he gets flustered_. Sherlock however, appeared unfazed.

"Relax, I know you're only flat mates. Not that there's anything wrong with the alternative."

"Rightly so." John sighed, apparently feeling more at ease. It didn't take a master of deduction to work out that he copped that more often than he'd like to.

"You must be Doctor John Watson? Mrs. Hudson mentioned you earlier on." I smirked. "I'm guessing you're the more tolerable of the two?"

"John is fine… And how could you tell?" He sighed, shooting Sherlock a 'we'll talk about this later' look, likely something to do with scaring off the neighbors. "Whatever he's said to you, I hope it wasn't anything _too_ offensive."

The taller of the two suddenly gave the most exasperated yawn, and hopped up to a standing position. "I merely observed." He glared, but he was _still_ looking at me. He _knew_ something wasn't right, and just by knowing that he was a threat. But surely, there was _no_ way he could find out. There was absolutely _no_ way he could know, even with his super 'detective' powers of deduction. But that still didn't stop me from feeling like he had me in the palm of his hand, ready to crush me just because he could. "Right." He swiftly spun around, the black Belstaff coat he donned whipped up and before long he was ascending upstairs and shut the door behind him.

_I doubt that's the last I'm going to see of him._

"He does that." John gestured to the top of the stairs, but appeared noticeably relaxed now that his friend had made his timely departure. "And on behalf of Sherlock, I do apologize for whatever he may have said that may have been mildly-"

"John, it's fine." Oddly enough, these two flat mates were like yin and yang. Sherlock appeared to be at the extreme end of annoying, where John appeared to be a buffer that mellowed out the mix. "I'm a tough nut to crack; it'll take a lot more than a few petty remarks to get me to leave."

Appearing to relax even more so, he smiled. _Man, he's cute when he does that_. But oddly enough I started smiling, and neither of us appeared to do much more than that for an odd, slightly awkward thirty seconds at least.

"So, Sam, do you…"

"Do I…?" _Don't ask. Don't ask._

"Well, I know you're probably busy moving in, but if you weren't too busy tomorrow night I-"

_Damn._

"John…" I felt my face turning an embarrassing shade of pink. "That's flattering. It really is…" _Such a shame, he seems nice. _My right hand clutched my left arm as I shuffled awkwardly. And despite the fact that I had _no_ reason to be awkward, dating wasn't really high on my list of priorities right now. "I just moved in… I've literally got so much to do, and I'm still dealing with the throws of jetlag…"

"Oh, that's fine. That's… Fine." _Well, crap._ He did his best not to seem a little dejected, but he seemed to recover from the dinner-date rejection quite well. "No matter, well… I'd best go make sure Sherlock hasn't put another bullet in the wall." He sighed. "It was a pleasure to meet you Sam. Surely we'll be seeing a lot more of you, with us constantly running in and out of the flat with our cases."

"I'm sure." The awkwardness washed away and left me with a bit of raw sincerity as I watched him slowly ascend up the stairs. I liked this man, more so than that _thing_ that had wandered back upstairs; and there was something about John that just put me at ease. While I spoke to him, it was as if I could briefly forget about the secret nagging at the back of my mind. John was a comforting force of nature, and as much as I would love to sit down over an open candlelit dinner, I couldn't. Dating or caring wasn't a luxury that I couldn't just openly afford right now, or possibly _ever_. "John?"

He paused and turned around with eyebrows raised expectantly. "Yeah?"

"That's not to say we can't be friends, right?"

John grinned. "Right."

And with that, he was gone. And I was finally alone, _again_.

_This is going to be harder than I thought._


	3. A Little Stroll in the Sky

**Author's Note: I hope you like the story so far! I'm a bit rusty when it comes to writing first-person however I'm rather enjoying it! In this chapter I've added a few song references in here (feel free to look up the songs on Youtube and listen when I mention them), so please enjoy! And don't forget to review if you like (or don't like!) the story Or have any suggestions! Cheers guys!**

To quote Pharrell_; 'Dear diary, it's happened again'._

I could attempt to overlay my actions with panic and guilt but I _already _knew how easily a simple afternoon walk had been exchanged with a night of opportunistic crime. And I'm not trying to explain my actions as anything so petty as 'self defense' as to how I found myself in this situation, but given my current dire living circumstances involving my past and a conglomeration of a fair few other factors it seemed only natural that I take advantage of an opening presented before me.

_But I also enjoy it…_

That, I do.

I must, considering that I now find myself crouched over a crimson puddle in a back alley at 8:40pm at night as a conveniently timed spout of rain managed to drizzle down from above. Oh, also standing above a corpse, no less. Did I put it there? _Yes_. But more importantly, did I profit from said encounter? _Yes_. Perhaps not enough to provide me with a high-end fashion wardrobe or an upgrade to a luxurious penthouse suite (if those even _existed_ in London), but enough to throw a quick down payment on some shabby pay-as-you-go rental furniture plus a few trips to Tesco's.

Now, that was all well and good. I had a wad of pounds to carry away and use for my own means, but I now had a rather immobile dead body at my feet; one that I willingly put there to reap the benefits of a petty crime but a consequence that I now had to deal with. The irony of all this was that today was meant to be the very 'first' day of my new life, yet I had resorted to using the very thing that had caused me to go on the run in the first place. I had essentially _relapsed_ into the very thing I had sworn against, but ultimately it was the most effective tool to achieve a means to an end. It was my survival mechanism, and I used it well.

As with my 'condition', fortunately for me the nature of my criminal action revealed no guilt. That's not to say I was a psychopath or a sociopath or anything of the like, but whether it be through experience, genetics or just having 'balls of steel', it didn't faze me. Death was death, and what happened here… Well, that was just a consequence of what I had to do for a quick buck.

"Sorry." I said flatly, my black boots lightly nudging his neck, which yielded and then allowed his head to flop to the side, his jaw permanently lodged open and his mouth disfigured in a wide 'O', possibly related to his vain attempt to utter a scream before his untimely demise.

As the rain thundered down overhead, I flickered my gaze up to my presently drab surroundings. I was standing central at the back of an alley that snaked around a block of flats no more than a mere thirty meters from a busy road where taxis audibly sped across the wet blacktop. The odds of somebody happening to stroll down here were highly realistic, but I was calm. Why? Because I wasn't sloppy; I _knew_ the body would be found and it was very likely that would happen very, very soon. But I knew I was safe, and would be following the police investigation that Scotland Yard would eagerly take the reins of.

That wasn't to say I didn't _fear_ being caught in the long run; that 'was' ultimately the reason I had emigrated to another country to start afresh, and I most certainly didn't want either of my neighbors to find out my darkest, most terrible secrets that could see me locked up and incarcerated for life. I just… I found this easy. Murder, death and destruction; it came as naturally to me as a paintbrush would have come to Van Gogh. I didn't just openly do it to feel that 'rush', but out of necessity.

Out of _survival_.

I glanced down at my watch again. _9:02pm_. It was getting late, and despite barely knowing my neighbors I figured that staying out late at night, barely rugged up for the treacherous winter with only a light jacket, and staying out in the pouring rain may potentially be enough to rouse the slightest bit of suspicion. _I might as well be off then_,_ the body can find it's own way to the morgue_.

I took one final glance down at my victim and gave him a light profile over inside my head. _Male, aged roughly between 42 to 46, married, works in a desk-job, likely accounting based on the business cards he kept in his wallet, carries cash like it's candy, hence the reason I singled him out from the crowd, and two kids waiting for him at home based on the small photographs wedged behind his credit card. _This man would be missed; a wife would be wondering why her husband hadn't returned home at the generally expected time of 7:00pm after a short trip on the tube, and likewise their kids would be just as confused. Grieving would commence shortly after the dire news broke, and life would begrudgingly resume its destined course. But all that was negligible when I was five hundred pounds better off for it.

_Time to go, I suppose…_

"Don't be so dull, I probably saved you from a lifetime of pencil pushing to fix someone's dirty taxes." I smirked, taking one final moment to admire my crime scene. So clean, so well kept. Minimal blood spatter and a tidy puddle surrounding the corpse that had finally stopped pooling since the final arterial ejection took place. The blood that had, of course, pumped straight from the near-perfect laceration lodged inches deep into the flesh of his neck, the one _I_ put there. Also, there were absolutely no signs of a struggle. The deed had been quick; almost instant yet he had seen the person responsible for his death based solely on his final expression, yet it was almost apparent that he just _walked_ in. I 'may' have been entirely responsible that, another quirk entirely attributable to my secret.

_My secret._

I smirked. As much of a crux as it was, it had helped me tonight.

And right now, I owed much of my life to it, despite the fact that it was just as responsible for destroying it.

Taking a deep and bated breath I began to resume my journey back to the central street after making certain that the only droplets of blood to grace my attire managed to sink deep into the fabric of my jacket (which, fortunately for me was black). I felt the energy of the street occupied with people, cars and taxis grow stronger as I neared closer and closer, but remained ever so cautious so not to be seen.

All the while my crime had been carried out and after, I had kept a weather eye on the five flat windows that had their lights on, but to my respectful knowledge nobody had approached the windows or raised an alarm of sorts to alert the authorities to my misconducts. Better still, the nature of the back alley had provided me with a perfect scene to act out my opportunistic plan; the minimal lighting combined with the bulky fire escapes concealed me from view from most of the windows, so I had the utmost confidence that I had 'dodged a bullet', as it were. Although that still required my timely escape out of this alley and back to my flat to be effective, and unnoticed by all.

My steps towards the street were light; my senses tuned in to the environment around me as I kept to the shadows but kept up my wits. I lightly patted the pocket of my jeans to ensure the small fortune still remained, and edged closer to the sound of the hustle and bustle nearby.

But I came to a halt for I _suddenly_ came to a startling realization and mentally slapped myself when I realized how hideously careless I was actually being.

Regardless of how unnoticeable and anonymous one could be, the streets were still fairly populated at this hour and I was fairly certain that the odds of somebody having a rather spot-on memory weren't to be ignored, no matter how miniscule they might be. And adding to that, I had the ultimate getaway; one of many skills that _any_ thief or criminal would salivate over but one entirely unique to myself.

_Go on._

_Go on…. People may be looking to the streets but they're most certainly not looking to the sky._

I glanced upwards at the narrow gap lodged between two blocks of flats, and then down towards the path that would lead myself back onto the street outside. The thought of CCV surveillance quickly crossed my mind, but generally they often locked downwards (_not up_), and to position them in such a irrelevant location would not only be a waste of taxpayers dollars, but a waste of vital monitoring time. If there were ever a better spot for my dazzling escape into the night, this would be it.

It had to be now.

My heart began to race in fearful anticipation, or was it excitement? At this point it was hard to tell. Rain continued to pour down and soaked every strand on my head with beads of water dribbling down my face as I stared upwards at the sky and reeled in the thought of what was to come. I would have almost had the sudden urge to laugh, had it not been for my excellent degree of disciplined self-control I most definitely would have.

I felt an almost unbridled energy start to reverberate from my core outwards to the most finite of extremities with my eyes locked diligently to the sky still releasing the contents of the heavens above. I clenched both fists together in an attempt to subside the growing trembling that were only increasing in severity, as with my focus.

_Wait_.

If I _was_ going to do this, I was going to do this _properly_.

Wasting no time, I dug deep into the pocket of my coat and pulled out a small mp3 player that was able to clipped comfortably to the collar of my top. As I slipped both ear buds in, I found the appropriate track I had been after and adjusted the little device so it remained firmly in place just below my collarbone.

_Perfect_.

With everything set and perfectly planned, I clicked 'play' on my little machine and let _**Club Foot**_by _**Kasbian**_blare through the tiny buds and down through each external auditory canal. And it was at that precise moment when the right combination of adrenaline, excitement, fear and panic overcame me; it _happened_.

It all seemed like a rush at first, the wind whipping at my face and the feeling of suddenly having nothing at my feet to lay balance on; and to somebody vastly inexperienced (which was _everyone_) it would have been beyond disorientating. However this was just like riding a bike; it was a skill and a trait long forged into every inch of my being since this became a part of who and what I am and something that felt as natural to me as walking on a street.

And despite the fact that _this_ contradicted everything I had ever read in various texts relating to science and medicine, I knew it was natural to me.

I was _flying_.

Soaring, in fact. Well, rapidly ascending my altitude at a phenomenal swiftness and watching as the lights of London became smaller and smaller as I rose up towards the overhanging steel clouds above. I uncontrollably let out a sudden cry of ecstasy as I breached the ethereal layer continuing to bucket down until I laid eyes on the most crisp and clear sky scattered with numerous patterns of stars that lay strewn across the vast expanse, only being hindered by the intensity of a full moon that cast its domineering lunar light above the clouds but being denied the opportunity to do so on the populace below.

It was a near inexpressible feeling to have such a unique ability, allowing me to do something only fantasized about in popular culture; but yet still only being just one ability that added to my vast repertoire of skills; the very skills that contributed to the very reason I was sought after, and at a very high price I might add. I careered through the air and playfully ducked in and out of the clouds, as a dolphin would frolic in the ocean below. The freedom of not having my wings and flying through incredibly different means meant that the agility and nimbleness of my flight skills were not hampered in the slightest, and each movement was entirely the result of where my mind wished to take me. If I wanted to flank left, I would. If I wanted to barrel roll, suddenly fall or accelerate at a drastic rate, my mind would command it and my body would follow.

The bliss I felt from being up in the sky seemingly took away every concern that lay waiting for me back down below, but my heart knew I couldn't just keep my head in the clouds (_quite _literally in this case). Ascending back above in a fell swoop, I reduced my speed to a stationary hover and side-glanced at my watch.

**9:24pm.**

My favorite song had come and gone; my mp3 player now resorting to my most recent 'purchases' and now blasting out '_**Fancy**_**' **by _**Iggy Azalea**__. _Not exactly the most 'fly-worthy- song one could listen to, but I still got a kick out of the beat. Heck, I even found myself humming the words from time to time.

'_First things first, I'm the real-est…'_ Right… Not exactly an example of English's finest moments, but catchy nonetheless. _'Drop this and let the whole world feel it…' _That trademark smirk found its way to my lips, especially when the next part of the song came on. '_And I'm still in the mur-der biz'ness, I could hold you downnnnn, like I'm givin' lessons in physics'_. Perhaps this was flight-appropriate, after all.

Realizing that my time up here was well overspent, I suddenly launched and dived myself fluidly down through the layer of clouds and reveled in the rush I got from feeling the wind roar at my face and whip up my soaked hair as I began to practically free-fall down to London below. Despite the heavy rain the lights of London became ever clearer as I picked up speed; but all the while my eyes were constantly darting for the most prominent landmark I could find that would indicate a close proximity to Baker Street. Or possibly, one that was close enough to a taxi stand that would allow me quick transportation back to my newfound flat.

I suppose I was fortunate in the sense that my jacket was black as I rapidly descended through the pouring night sky and closer to the surface below; my eyes constantly scanning for a safe place to land.

_Bingo_.

Roughly fifteen kilometers ahead (as the crow flies), was a taxi rank that lay positioned beside a string of well-lit (but quaint) Chinese and Thai restaurants a good four blocks from Baker Street. While I wasn't quite familiar with the CCV surveillance in my own new living arrangements, there appeared to be a few tempting rooftops that likely had their own convenient fire-escapes; easy enough to navigate (or hover) down to avoid suspicion from any sorry souls who may have the misfortune to glance my way.

I ducked low but kept my speed; the water droplets still flickering hard against my skin. Despite the fact that I didn't believe it possible, the rain was coming down much harder than before. My clothes were now absolutely saturated; my hair was likely a mess and despite the fact that my immune system was in an excellent state, all this exposure to the elements was undoubtedly a negative factor in my personal state of health.

'_I'm so fancy_, _you already knowwww'_. My takeoff and flight skills may have been impeccable, but my landing? Not so much.

'_I'm in the fast lane'_. My shoes came quickly into contact with the rooftop cement, a little too quickly in fact.

'_From LA to Tok-e-yo_'. Crap, too quickly _indeed_. My shoes skidded due to a total loss of friction on the surface, and I stumbled and staggered until I ungracefully toppled forward and landed right on my knees and palms. "Damnit!" I rasped, wiping the dirt and soil from my palms, but recovering quickly enough to awkwardly find myself back on my feet.

_Note to self, work on landing strategies._

Setting aside my bout of shamelessly embarrassing display of clumsiness, I couldn't seem to wipe the smile beaming on my face. Yes, the circumstances leading to my flight may have been a little opportunistic, but they had granted me enough of an excuse to spread my metaphorical wings and _take flight_. I had taken a life to procure some vital much-needed funds, flown in a foreign London sky, and had landed successfully without so much as a broken bone.

And better still, that smile followed me all the way back to 221C Baker street. I couldn't care less if Sherlock and John heard me going back inside, because I was out of the torrential rain and under a roof. _My_ roof, where I was safe and would continue to be safe, regardless of who and what I happened to be.

And like what any sane person would do, I slipped off any and all items of clothing, as well as my trusty little mp3 player and made a beeline for the shower.

_So much for keeping a totally low profile._


	4. Late Night Conversations

**Author's note: Thanks for the review (to the first person who has reviewed my story), I'm glad you liked it! This chapter is a little different as it is a third-person POV of John and Sherlock, but Sam will return in the next chapter! Enjoy guys! And please review if you have the time! :D**

As the night began to delve deeper into the later hours, John still appeared to be just as heavily invested in his online blog as Sherlock was in his festering petri dish being heavily scrutinized under a microscope. The two men appeared to be totally married to their work, the standard norm after winding down from a case.

It wasn't until John occasionally began to glance up at his flat mate and time began to pass, that he finally decided to break the ice.

"The _case_ of the meddling Mariachi Band?" John murmured, but with enough volume to spark the attention of the other.

"Hm?"

"The name of this case. I've not found a better name that best describes a cohort of murderers sporting some sombreros…" John piped, and continued to type nimbly on his laptop.

"Oh." Sherlock appeared unfazed as his attention was currently buried deep into his scientific toy. It appeared as though John was losing the battle of attention seeking to an unidentified amoeba. "Yes, sounds fine."

"Good." He reluctantly began to return back to his blog. However, it didn't take long for him to pause and glance over towards the kitchen. "Good…" He repeated, his foot impatiently starting to tap on the ground.

"You want to talk about the neighbor." It wasn't a suggestion, but rather it was a statement.

"I…" _Oh, he's good_. "Well, she's nice." John shrugged, trying to be a little extra blasé about it all, regardless of how he _actually_ felt. "I mean, she didn't seem like she'd be any trouble, considering how carefully Mrs. Hudson would be screening them these days…"

The detective blinked once or twice before pausing from his current task, and sitting upright on his chair before finally looking John's way. He momentarily clasped both hands together, quickly removed them and smoothly strode towards his favorite chair where he then softly sat and teetered on the edge. Finally, he topped that off with his trademark pose by leaning forward and supporting his chin with steepled fingers. Based on the lapse between his last word and now, it was clear that John was in for one _hell_ of a spiel.

"She _is_ nice, isn't she?" While he wasn't panicking on the outside, an uncertainty began to grow; kudos of Sherlock.

"Of course John. Of course." Sherlock's tone suddenly quipped to one of a more positive nature, but his fixed, calculated expression said otherwise.

"But-"

"But _nothing_; must you always assume there's a catch?"

"Well, with you there generally-" Much to his displeasure, he was abruptly cut off.

"Your detective skills are proving to hone a little sharper; you assumed correctly." The faintest impression of a smirk graced the corner of Sherlock's lips, but it was gone before John even had a chance to question its existence.

"_And_?" It was clear from John's less-than-impressed expression, he was less than impressed. "If you're going to dissect the poor girl as you kindly started to do earlier on, I might as well hear the worst of it."

"Hm." That glimmer of fleeting amusement came and went as Sherlock prepared to unleash his deductive tirade. "Well, John… Keeping in mind that I've only had a conversation with her that's lasted a total of five minutes and thirty three seconds at the bottom of the stairs it's fair to say first impressions may be _incomplete_, however setting aside the fact that she's clearly a young woman in her mid to late twenties, clearly emigrated from Australia based on that rather irksome accent and traveling _extremely_ light, quite possibly only possessing the clothes on her back it seems, adding to that the sheer desperation of finding a place of accommodation due to the noticeable abruptness of Mrs. Hudson handing over the keys to the basement flat…" All the while he spoke, the confidence in his deductions was simply radiating, and John clearly wanted the opportunity to speak but knew doing so wouldn't be so wise. Plus, with all the experience he'd had through living with Sherlock, it was best just to let him _vent_ it all out.

"But clearly not here on a holiday, based on the size of her duffle bag; one I caught a glimpse of in the middle of a furniture-less room as she departed to go for a walk. I'll make a mental note to investigate her living quarters later…" He leant further onto his fingers, his attention now narrowing to the wall behind John.

"You want to _break_ in?"

"Nonsense John, I prefer the term 'picking the lock', but beside the point; to take the first flat she saw with minimal to no supplies and to spend the night without furniture, that speaks _desperation_. The plight of a young woman whose journey spanned continents to escape whatever it is she's running from."

John shuffled his laptop aside and sunk deeper into his chair. "Domestic problem perhaps? Family issues? It's not _that_ uncommon to move after a traumatic event."

"Unlikely. Statistically speaking most women her age and locale of origin don't settle in London following a failed relationship. Adding to that the curious agenda behind her taking 221C… No, it's _much_ more than the destabilization of a failed relationship."

"Well, at _least_ she's single, right?" John's sarcasm sunk thickly through his tone, but again Sherlock appeared unfazed.

"Then there's the _skin_."

"I'm sorry, her skin?"

"Too pale, clearly not attributable to the dry summer currently being shared by both the Western and Eastern coasts of Australia; earlier on I took the liberty of analyzing weather patterns pertaining to the past three months on either coast, minimal to no rain." He mused. "And _before_ you can say 'she could just simply have a pale complexion, Sherlock', unlikely. Her paleness combined with a subtle sensitivity to the light in the hallway is suggestive that she hasn't spent a great deal of time outside. Locked up indoors perhaps?"

"Oh come on!" John scoffed. "So, what? You're accusing her of being some sort of _prisoner_?"

"Don't be silly John; I had Mycroft _browse_ through any Australian penitentiaries housing female prisoners and examined the lists entailing those fitting her description that had been either released or alternatively, escaped in the last two months. Needless to say, I came up empty." He shot his gaze back at John. "So, that rules out jail, and we know she's not running from a failed or abusive relationship but she's running from something that's previously caused her to spend a great deal of time indoors, but something serious enough that she's barely taken enough supplies to last the week. I'd imagine funding would be an issue as well, considering that she handed over enough pounds to keep Mrs. Hudson happy for the time being; a bit out of character for our lovely land lady, don't you think?" He mused. "Who _previously_ would spend days getting character references from potential tenants of the basement flat, only to change her ways so suddenly when a young woman turns up and takes the flat at a moment's notice?"

John remained ever so quiet, his mouth occasionally falling open as if he meant to speak, and then shutting accordingly. "You're not going to let her just 'be' a neighbor, will you?"

"I've got Mycroft digging up what he can as we speak…" Without warning he hopped up from his seated position, only to glide over towards the window where he peaked out to observe the street below. "Might prove a little difficult depending on how open ASIO are, but given the strong ties between both nations it's only prudent to assume that he'd have _some_ degree of success…"

"_Right_." John nodded, but appeared rather… Perturbed by Sherlock's deductions. "You think she might be connected with anyone we've had a run-in with in the past? Could she have another agenda apart from just being 'on the run'?"

"Possible, but again; unlikely." Sherlock remained fixed to the glass, but grew bored of his observations and slowly turned to face John. "She's on the run, if she were some sort of a spy or an assassin, she'd come prepared." He sighed. "People in those professions are meticulous at creating a false persona; they spend their lives creating a ruse; one that this girl has failed to do from the start. If she were a threat in that respect, she wouldn't dare to give me a reason to suspect otherwise."

His partner slowly nodded, now having clasped his own hands together. "That _does_ actually make some sense." He then let out a rather dejected sigh, only to lean forward and unhinge both hands so he could run them down his face. "Could explain why she was so quick to reject an offer to dinner…"

"No, she clearly lacks interest." Sherlock quipped, which got a rather irritated look from John. "Oh, don't be like _that_; I'm saving you the hardship of wading through years-worth of sentimental baggage. Besides, given the nature of her visit to the UK, I daresay you'd be into dating a woman with a confidential rap sheet."

"You know, there is _one_ possibility that you haven't looked at."

"Hm?"

"I might be overstepping my expertise with this little _theory_ of mine…" John began, teetering forward on his chair. "But. What _if_… She's just moved from Australia, doesn't have a great deal of funds given the recent gauging in her wallet from the plane tickets, and is on one of those arrangements where a job is sorted for her before the flight?" He smirked. "And better still, what _if_ she's just pale because she's _actually_ pale?"

Sherlock appeared rather bemused by it all. "John, I think you're missing the-"

"Here's what _I _think." Oh yes; now it was _John's_ time to shine. "That flat has been empty for a _long_ time, and you've been comfortable with that. Now, somebody 'new' has moved in and you're getting ahead of yourself with all your 'deductions'. Couldn't it be entirely possible that she's just a normal young woman?"

"It's possible however based on my deductions entirely improbable. Haven't you been listening?" If Sherlock lacked any self-control he'd likely be pouting by now, but he remained stone-faced. "When I spoke to her, she displayed all the obvious markers of an extremely poor liar; and likewise failed to deny my accusations. She-"

"Was probably entirely off-put by your 'massive intellect', and was probably scared. Everyone reacts differently to your little… Whatever it is you do." John sighed, but let out a frustrated yawn. "Look, I'm exhausted, and I'm going to bed. You think you'll be fine with your home-grown petri colonies and conspiracy theories?" He let out another yawn as he found his feet and began to stand.

"I'm not wrong, John."

"For your sake, and _my _sake I hope so." The doctor began to amble over towards the direction of his room, but paused upon hearing the sound of a door close from downstairs.

"Coming home late; it's been raining for the past four hours and quite heavily in fact." Sherlock's smooth baritone resounded through the flat, but his attention returned to the rain pattering on the window outside. "Not dressed for the harsh England rain, especially in winter and I find it unlikely a _tourist_ or a newly emigrated traveler would choose a showering evening to inspect the local wildlife. Even _you_ can't say that's not a little bit curious."

John had his back to Sherlock, but the look on his face spoke volumes. _He's never 100% right, but he's generally spot-on at least 95%... _"Try to get some rest yourself... When was the last time _you_ slept?" He sighed, and continued on his path towards his room. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight John." And with the sounding of John retreating to his room, a silent peace reigned strong throughout 221B.

Except Sherlock's mind _wasn't_ silent, for it was reeling with possibilities and potential theories that surrounded the strange young woman who had resided in 221C. Despite John's alternate ideas, Sherlock _knew_ something wasn't right. Something just didn't gel, and he wasn't prepared to let this case go. For John to see it his way, he'd have to stop thinking with that _other_ part of his anatomy, other than his brain.

Suddenly, his phone blipped, indicating the arrival of a new text. _Interesting_.

**Diogenes club. 2:00pm. Need to talk. – MH**

And so it seemed that another had seen the light.


	5. Post-Murder Hangover

**Authors Note: Hey guys! Just another chapter I'm sneaking in! This is split into two parts; but you'll see what I mean. I'm having plenty of fun writing this and in the next chapter we'll get to see Sherlock and John do their 'thang' on the crime scene, as well as hopefully fit in the meeting between Sherlock and Mycroft. There'll also be plenty of neighborly interactions between Sam and friends to come, and I can't wait to write it! Anyhow, enjoy! :D**

**At 221C:**

_Best. Sleep. In. Ages._

I blinked rapidly as light poured through the gaps between the partially newspaper-covered windows; my entire body sent a rather uncomfortable groan of discomfort throughout every muscle, likely explained from the floor being substituted for a bed. _I'll sort that out today, now that I have the money_. Better still, I had a bit of cash to spare for a decent meal or two. _Perhaps John will want to grab a bite with me down at – Oh wait, I rejected him, remember? But not as friends… No, it'd be weird. _

Slowly and carefully I raised myself to a seated upright position and gently placed both hands behind me as a made a poor attempt to stretch. _Nope, back still hurts_. Everything hurt. Even my head hurt, feeling like it should have measured somewhere between being hit in the face, and a queasy hangover.

And I felt cold.

_Why do I feel cold? It's almost a bit chilly in here_.

And then I looked down.

_Oh_.

I was naked.

Well, half-naked to be precise. It appeared as though I had made an attempt for the bathroom but had conked out halfway, only having removed my boots, jeans and jacket but somehow deciding to lay with my back spread along the carpet. At first I didn't realize what could have possibly driven me to the point of absolute physical and mental exhaustion, and then it hit me (again).

Flying.

While it wasn't intensely laboring on the body, it was extremely taxing on the mind. Adding to that the fact that I hadn't so much as taking to the sky in over three months, which was enough to make me a little 'unfit' in that respect. After all, it wasn't technically my body acting as a physical propellant that allowed me to take leave of the surface, but rather my mind. My mind was key to everything 'inhuman' that I could do, and hence was the reason I was being hunted. All my life I had often been accused as being a danger to not only the general public, but to myself… And for a long, long time I believed that. But as I grew older and vastly more independent, I started to question the agendas of the people I once thought cared for me. Turns out, I was just a 'thing' to be poked and prodded; a missile being coated a final layer of paint while be primed before battle. Even thinking about those past years made me feel absolutely wretched, but times like these I forced myself to remember my newfound freedom; all six months of it. And more importantly, those brief six months granted me the allowance to create a falsified identify, to create a _life_ for myself.

And if there was one promise I would absolutely live by, it was that I would _never_ return back to the horrors of my past.

_But you sure visited old habits last night._

Oh. Yes… The murder. The exact murder pertaining to the wad of notes sticking out of the pocket of my discarded jeans that lay sprawled on the floor before me. I suppose I hadn't really planned on doing what I did, but I hadn't been sloppy. Besides, I had _the_ perfect getaway and I daresay Scotland Yard would start pointing fingers at the seemingly naïve Australian girl who hadn't even been _seen_ leaving the crime scene. _Not unless they had CCTV fixed to the sky… And I'm sure even London has its limits._

As I slowly began to stand, I let out an impressive yawn and brought both hands running down my face. As I brought them away however, I happened to notice prominent flecks of dried blood that had been stained from the night before. _Turns out my murder wasn't as clean as I liked… _I hadn't forgotten what happened, but given my degree of emotional exhaustion, last night's events were considerably foggy for the time being.

"I suppose I'll need that shower…" I yawned, and reached down to clutch my duffle bag (which _thankfully_ had a spare change of clothes), and began to drag my tired-self towards the bathroom. All the while, my mind began to whir at the recent memory of last night's events.

_"No… No, please. Please! I… I have a wife. I have a family, please!"_

"_Look… What… Whatever you are… I won't say anything. I won't say anything!"_

"_Oh god, what are-"_

"_What are you?!"_

Water trickled down my body as I leant against the tiled wall of the shower, my forehead resting against the cool surface with my body weight leaning against it. My eyes began to weigh heavily as I drifted into a more crystal clear recollection of my crime. When my eyes finally closed I could picture myself silently coaxing the man into the area where I killed him; but not through using a woman's ability of vain seduction. I used my _mind_. He followed me like a sophisticated zombie, simply by suddenly changing his path in the middle of a bustling crowd. I could see myself silently strolling through the back alley with a man clad in a business suit trailing closely behind, but apparently in a daze.

And for a minute or two, when we finally came to a stop, we simply stared at each other.

And then… He suddenly came to, because he started to panic. He started to look around, not quite aware as to how he actually came there. As this all played out in what felt like watching a black and white silent movie, he suddenly raised his arm and pointed directly at me, but I appeared unfazed. I lightly tilted my head to the side, almost like a predator would do as they studied and analyzed their prey, and whatever I did was enough to set him off. He started to clasp his hands together; to plead as he reduced himself to his knees and tried to shamelessly crawl towards me. He was _crying_; sobbing in fact, as he continued to beg.

I then appeared to smile.

He continued to beg and weep.

I raised a hand with grace.

He cowered.

I advanced but remained at least a meter or two away; all the while my hand rising higher; my smile growing wider.

His cries grew more desperate.

And then, with a quick swipe to the left; his throat suddenly slit open from an invisible force; blood erupted in a crimson flood with droplets of red spattering over my jacket, hands and face. The victim slumped towards the ground instantly as red liquid continued to pool around him. He was _dead_.

And it was at that moment that I snapped from my memory, only to glance down at the last remaining trickles of red separating from my body and running down into the drain below. _I did this_. I killed a man. Not even a few days in a foreign country and I had slit the throat of a complete stranger with my powers, and for what? Five hundred pounds?

_Worth it!_

After twisting the taps I stepped out; cleaned myself up and slipped on a fresh change of clothes. I had a little bit of shopping to do.

**At the Crime-Scene:**

"So what are we looking' at?"

"Male… Forty eight years old, his wife called in last night saying he hadn't come home…" Sergeant Donovan referred back to the file in her hand. "His name is Gareth Markstan, a banker who worked just a few blocks from 'ere. Was due to come home around 6:30pm, call came in around 10."

"Poor bastard looks like he got stabbed…" Lestrade carefully began to circle the corpse, but made sure to allow Forensics to do what they had to do in order to record and document the area before the body could be moved. Fortunately for the police, they didn't have to ward the public away, considering how isolated the crime scene was from the main road. "You find a weapon?"

"None we could find…" Anderson crouched down, taking photos as he went. "But whatever the blade, it was either extremely fine or our murderer was extremely quick… Not a jagged edge to be seen."

"Right…" The silver-haired detective occasionally crouched down, saw what he needed to see and stood up again. "CCTV catch anything towards the street?"

"We're getting that as we speak, but as of yet nobody's reported seeing anything out of the ordinary. If he was forced to go down here, whoever it was that killed him didn't flash a gun at him openly on the street." Sally sighed, but the uncertainty in her voice was alarming. The entire team sent from Scotland Yard all appeared to silently agree that something about this was a little 'out of the ordinary'. Something wasn't quite gelling about the whole thing, which meant one thing and one thing only.

"We'll bring him in." Lestrade sighed, although clearly relieved that he had such an asset at his disposal.

"Oh, _come on_." Anderson cranked his head towards Lestrade, and stood up. "The coroner hasn't even had a chance to _look_ at the body yet, and this just seems like a stab and run. He didn't have any cash in his wallet and we found that lying on the floor, so it's safe to say he was robbed. I know how much you like his 'expertise', but this is simple… Even for us!"

"He's right you know." Donovan cut in. "Just a murder to a poor sod that didn't deserve it. We'll find the weapon, something should show up on CCTV and we'll find the sod who did this. Simple." She sighed, folding her arms across her chest. "No need to call in the freak."

"You know _just _as well as I do that something's not right here." The DI frowned. "_Yes_, he got robbed, and that might 'ave been the reason he got sliced, but in all my years as a DI I've _never_ seen a wound like that."

"You've never seen a throat cut open?" Anderson drawled. "Like I said, it was either a sharp blade or we're dealing with a skilled-"

"I 'eared what you said." Lestrade tapped his foot impatiently on the dirty surface below, his eyes narrowing on the body. "But it's _too_ clean, and there doesn't look like there was a struggle. Whatever happened, he came in quietly... And then had his throat slit like a hot knife through butter? Even the blood spatter… It looks _wrong_, but don't ask me how. It just does."

"_Right_." Anderson nodded slowly, but knowing his outcry of frustration would fall on deaf ears, he turned back to the body and began following through with whatever he had left to do. Shortly after, Sally heaved a heavy sigh of defeat and did the same, leaving a rather perplexed DI who began to punch in an all too familiar number on his phone that would connect him to the one man that had earned his place on his speed dial. He eagerly planted the phone beside his ear as it began to dial.

"_Sherlock Holmes."_

"Yeah… It's Lestrade. Listen, I've got a bit of an odd one here. Typical Monday morning murder; poor sod got his neck sliced open and had a few notes taken from his wallet… But I'll be honest, something just doesn't gel here."

A silence reigned on the phone for the better half of ten seconds, until Sherlock finally decided to break it.

"_I'll tell you what I told John. I'm not leaving the house for anything less than a seven. This… Is clearly a five." _He responded quite dully, his smooth baritone cutting nonchalantly through the speakers.

"Oi, I'm not done." Lestrade sighed, running a hand through his cropped hair. "No witnesses having reported any strange noises or seeing anything involving a man being threatened or coerced, it was as if he walked to his death on his own accord… Sound familiar?"

Another pause.

And another.

"_Unlikely."_

"No sign of a weapon, but the wound…" He paused. "The wound…. In all my years at Scotland Yard I've never seen anything like it. It's deep, practically down to the bone but it's _clean_; no jagged edges, the blade must have been millimeters thick, if that!"

The line remained silent, this time extending into a prolonged hiatus.

"Look, I wouldn't call you unless I felt like we were in over our heads here." Lestrade sighed. "And God 'elp me, that's always. But this time, something's not right, and I _wish_ could tell you exactly how but that's why I need you. If this 'is' a waste of time, so be it… But I'd rather you tell me that, instead of me just ignoring my gut."

Silence reigned on a little bit longer, but a belated sigh on the other end signaled the end of his vow of silence.

"_Where?"_

"Central London, about ten blocks from your way, I'll text you the details." He wouldn't admit it to Sherlock, but Lestrade's frown began to shift the other way. "Will you come?"

"_Be there shortly. Make sure the body isn't moved, especially by Anderson…" _The line then abruptly ended, leaving a rather pleased Lestrade on the other end.

"Freak coming?" Sally _knew_ that look, and she despised it; for every time Lestrade had that pleased look on that mug of his, it generally meant Sherlock had agreed to be dragged along for his 'consultation' services.

"He bloody better."


End file.
